The F Word
by Archiving-Jason
Summary: Tintin had never wanted the Captain to find out about his past and the the Captain had always been fine not asking. But unfortunately, the young reporter hasn't been put in a position to keep it hidden any longer.
1. The Telegram

Disclaimers: I do not claim to own anything, Tintin and all of his friends and enemies belong to Moulinsart.

* * *

The Captain had been busy with his paper when it had happened. It was part of their routine, he would read the newspaper and grumble over politics and skip over the sports and Tintin would go through all of his post, of which there would always be plenty for him to read, a mixture of fan mail, correspondence and if they were lucky, an assignment.

A loud sound burst through the Captain's train of thought and Haddock jumped at the bark of a laugh that broke the quiet of the morning. He looked up to see Tintin with a hand clasped over his mouth, as though he was as surprised what came out of it as the Captain was.

"Didn't realise you got a lot of funny post," he remarked, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't. It's-" the hand returned to his mouth again, clearly trying to put a stop on all the unwanted sounds spilling from it.

It wasn't at all like Tintin. It wasn't often that the Captain saw the lad out of control and he was clearly trying and failing to hold onto it. He couldn't see how the post could rattle his friend so much.

"You all right, lad?" Haddock asked, dark bushy eyebrows now knitting together, because something was clearly off.

It took Tintin a moment to speak, pulling the hand away from his mouth for the third time.

"Yes, I- er…" he frowned down at the telegram in his hands, clearly thinking hard. A full minute had passed by before, he blurted out, "my father's dead."

The Captain recoiled, spluttering. Out of everything he had been expecting to hear, that was not on his list. He didn't even know Tintin had a father until now, or any family of that matter. There had been no mention of them and, though the Captain couldn't deny he was a curious man, he didn't ask questions or press for anything that Tintin didn't want to give. It came as a shock, but doubtless it would be an even bigger shock to Tintin.

"My boy- I'm so sorry- I-"

But before the Captain could carry on fumbling over his words, Tintin stood up.

"It's fine," he said abruptly, "I mean, it's… It's not, but… I just…" the boy's cheeks were flushing red and Haddock could see that he was becoming flustered. The lad was supposed to be the unflappable one, it was usually his job to go blundering about and getting himself in a tizzy. But the Captain had come to know that death brought out all sorts of sides of people that weren't expected.

"It's all right lad," the Captain said softly, making Tintin pull up short, his mouth clamping shut, "it's all right"

Tintin's cheeks were burning and Haddock could see the telegram trembling in his hands, "I…" the boy's words were failing him fast, "can I…"

"Thundering typhoons, of course you can leave! It's your home as much as it is mine!"

Haddock saw the corner of Tintin's mouth twitch and heard a mumbled thank you, before the lad turned and all but ran from the room.


	2. The Good News

Tintin hurried to his room, shutting the door behind him. He heard Snowy whine enquiringly from the bed, but he didn't respond to it. His hands shaking, he pulled up the telegram to his line of vision and another laugh erupted from him, though he didn't know why. He didn't even know what he felt, which was a very odd feeling in itself.

Something in his mind informed him that it was shock, which would certainly make sense. But mingled in there was something else. Disbelief? Relief? Happiness? Was he even allowed to be happy at the news of his father's death?

He got the answer to that question almost immediately, a vicious little yes snarling from somewhere within him. Yes, he was happy. The laughter was more likely to be nervous reaction, but he was happy. It was a bitter, vehement, gleeful sort of happiness and it scared Tintin. He'd seen so much death and never had he been happy about it, not even if it meant his safety or if it secured a country's freedom. But god, he felt happy now.

"I win," he hissed under his breath, before catching himself.

He paused for a minute before heading over to the bed and sitting down. He shouldn't have sounded like that, he wasn't supposed to be so… triumphant. But for whatever reason, it felt like a victory. He had won. He'd got away, he'd made a name for himself, he was a successful reporter. He'd survived. And what had his father done? Broken his neck falling down the stairs. So entirely dull and mundane and though it was far from the death that he deserved, it was at least boring, almost comical.

What a stupid way to die, falling down the stairs.

He turned to Snowy and spoke, "Father's dead."

Snowy started to growl as soon as he said that word, but Tintin rubbed the soft, curly fur, stroking away the growls.

"No, Snowy, he's dead. He's…" He was dead. Suddenly, Tintin choked on a sob.

He's dead.

His father was dead. It was over. There would always be people after him, so many organisations and gangsters and drug rings that he had fought against, that would want his blood. But they couldn't hurt him. The only man who could do that, who had ever done that was waiting to be put in the ground.

Tintin ran a hand down his face and let out a shuddering breath.

"Thank god."

"Tintin?"

Tintin started, jumping up from the bed at Haddock's loud knock, Snowy following suit at his master's sudden apparent call to arms. He'd almost forgotten about the Captain. Oh god, the Captain. Panic seeped deep into his stomach and he felt his whole body tense. This would be harder than the funeral. How on earth would he be able to hide it from his friend, his closest friend, how he really felt about his father's death? That he was celebrating the bastard's demise, not grieving. And Captain Haddock, kind, protective, Captain Haddock would want to help Tintin in anyway he could. And to trick him like that, to make him believe that he was in mourning... that just didn't seem fair.

If he hadn't opened the telegram at breakfast, he probably wouldn't have even told him. Or if he had a little time to think, he could have at the least polished up his acting skills. It had caught Tintin by surprise. If he had known, if he had any inkling of what he was about to read, he would have controlled his reaction, would have acted calmly, acted like his usual self, anything other than laughing!

But as it stood, he had been at the breakfast table with his friend and it had been a normal morning until the happy bomb fell. It was impossible to tutor his reaction into anything other than the raw emotion that the Captain was witness to.

He couldn't have the Captain thinking that he was upset. That would be cruel. But Tintin couldn't face telling his friend the truth. He didn't want the Captain's view of him to change. He didn't want any pity, worry, or even worse, disbelief. The few people he had told hadn't believed him and though there was nothing indicating that the Captain would react the same way that they did, it still put Tintin on the defensive. He didn't want to risk it again.

And he didn't know how to answer the door.

"Laddie? Are you all right?"

Tintin stood up, curling his quivering hands into fists. He strode to the door, opened it with decisiveness and determination, only to have all words retreat back down his throat and he was left stammering. He sincerely hoped that his speechlessness wouldn't become permanent. It was getting quite annoying, truth be told.

"I… er…" the Captain was watching him patiently and Tintin tried his best to speak, feeling heat rise to his cheeks once more, "Could… could I be alone, Captain?"

As soon as he said the words, he felt guilt bleed into his gut, but the Captain, looking far from hurt, nodded understandingly.

"Aye, of course. You know where I'll be if you need me."

Tintin nodded and spoke again as the Captain was turning to leave, words starting and jittery, "I'll be fine, you know," as he saw the older man's head rotate, eyebrows raised, his stomach gave a nervous flip and he shrunk back a little, "you don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine, I promise."

"Thundering typhoons, boy," he muttered under his breath. Two weather-hardened hands rose up to clasp Tintin's shoulders, dwarfing them in his grip, "you don't have to be fine! No one's asking you to be fine! You've every right to be a god damned mess if you need to be!" he shook his head, "you don't have to be the boy wonder on this one, Tintin. It's all right to not be… y'know…"

"Myself?" Tintin asked quietly, smiling the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Y'know what I mean," Haddock grumbled, hands moving from the boy's shoulders to his own pockets, "nothing shakes ye, laddie. And… with things like this… it's all right to be a bit shaken."

The reporter smiled a little sadly, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his head, "I know, Captain," he murmured. And the thing was, he probably would be shaken. He wouldn't be fine, he would be a mess if the relationship he'd ever had with his father had ever been amicable. But it hadn't. And as it stood, the only "hard" thing about this was pretending that he cared.

"I just… I don't want you to worry."

Haddock shook his head, making a noise that sounded more like a gust of wind than any discernible words.

"Don't want me to worry? Blistering barnacles, if I don't worry about you then who will?! And don't say snowy," the Captain said as Tintin opened his mouth, sternness giving a slight hardness to his voice.

Tintin's smile faded when he saw just how serious the Captain was and he sighed, shoulders drooping. As much as he would like to point out that he didn't actually need anyone to worry about him, he knew that he wouldn't improve matters by saying so. And, well, the Captain wasn't wrong. Except for maybe the Thompsons on the cases they took together, there wasn't anyone else asides from him and Snowy that looked out for him. Unsure of what to say, he merely nodded in ascension.

Haddock patted the boy's arm, "I know you like your space and I'll let you have it now. I just wanted you to know that you don't have to do this on your own."

"I already knew that, Captain," Tintin replied, a warm smile creeping onto his face, "but thank you for reminding me."

The Captain nodded, giving Tintin's shoulder one last friendly grip with his hand, before finally turning to leave his friend's doorway. The reporter watched him for a moment, before retiring to his room.

He could tell that his friend wasn't satisfied by his response and he couldn't blame him. Tintin should, by all accounts, be far more emotional than this, for even the small signs of grief weren't there; red eyes, sniffling, cracks in his voice. He had none of that and Tintin unfortunately wasn't gifted with the greatest of acting skills. Sure, he could lie and make his way out of a sticky situation by spinning a tale, but he couldn't cry on demand. That sort of talent he lacked and he didn't want to start learning just so he could trick his friend.

Tintin made his way to the bed and sat down on the edge with a sigh. Snowy cocked his head, before making his way to his master and pawing at his leg, whining.

"I'm all right, Snowy," the boy sighed, though his voice remained dejected in spite of his words. He reached down to stroke the white fluffy fur, though his pet still whined anxiously, "I just don't know what I'm going to do about the Captain. I think he can see right through me already. But he's already involved now and I'll need his help later on."

Snowy barked and Tintin nodded, "I will, Snowy, boy. I've never had to deal with a dead person before. Well, you know what I mean. I have no idea how to arrange a funeral or sell a house and I've never even seen a will," he shook his head, "I don't know how I'm going to do this without the Captain's help. It's not like I can ask Thompson and Thomson, though that I think they'd be much use anyway," the boy muttered to himself, wondering exactly just how badly they could mess up a funeral, "The Captain will have had to have arranged a funeral before. He's the last of his line. If there's anyone who can help me, it's him."

Tintin's shoulders slumped dejectedly once more and he collapsed backwards onto the bed, frowning up at his ceiling.

"I just wish it didn't have to be."


	3. The Support

A/N:

More warnings to come as the story progresses.

Thank you all for your patience and support.

Disclaimer: This is a fan produced work, I do not claim to own any of Herge's work.

Tintin was skulking just outside of the firelight, watching almost cautiously as the Captain leafed through his tome. He had been stood there for a few minutes now, watching the firelight flicker and dance over the Haddock's face. He was loathe to interrupt the peaceful image and every time he tried, nerves tied his feet to the ground and there he would stay.

The reporter didn't want to involve him any more with his father's death than he already had, but there was no one else to turn to. It had been yesterday that he had received a phone call from his father's lawyer about his will and he had been trying since then to work out what to do about it. As his last living relative, Tintin would inherit everything his father once owned (not that he wanted any of it). But because of it, not only did he have to arrange the funeral, he had to sort through all of his father's possessions and put the house up for market. He'd never had to do this before and it made Tintin horribly aware of his youth. It wasn't the sort of thing that people his age dealt with.

Even if they were orphaned, children who'd lost a parent would typically have a guardian of some sort to arrange things. But it had been a long time since Tintin had been under the care of someone he could consider a legal guardian or under anyone's care for that matter. He had been so used to taking care of himself for so long now that the idea of someone else doing it for him was foreign. Even coming to live at Marlinspike, with a butler to do almost everything imaginable for him, had been a somewhat difficult adjustment.

And now he had to seek out help, concerning something he had no desire to involve himself with. He didn't want help, but out of all of his friends, he knew the only person he could really go to was the Captain. Though he had other friends, he didn't feel comfortable having anyone else handling something so personal. Until a few days ago, he didn't have a father. His parents, his past, they were never mentioned, never asked about and that was how he liked it. That part of his history hadn't been privy to anyone and he wanted to keep it that way with as many people as he could. If he was lucky, if he could pretend well enough, the Captain wouldn't catch on to the true nature of his relationship with his father. The boy simply wanted everything squared away and never spoken of again, but it wouldn't happen if he was fumbling his way through legalities and bungling up everything on the way.

Tintin had heard him talk about his mother's death and, seeing as he was the last of his line, presumably he must of taken care of the funeral and such. Tintin didn't want his friend to get any closer to learning about his complicated past than he already was, but the reporter felt... lost. It was a feeling he wasn't used to and he didn't enjoy it.

Taking a breath, he stepped forward and cleared his throat, "Captain?"

The Captain jumped at the break in his reverie, only for the surprise to ease away and his features to soften at seeing who it was. "Tintin. How are you, my lad?"

Guilt squirmed again in Tintin's stomach, but he ignored it, taking the seat opposite the Captain.

"I'm all right," he said, with a small shrug, averting the Captain's gaze and turning his face to the flames, "I… I need a favour from you."

"Anything."

"I…" Tintin interlaced his fingers, shifting a little in his seat, "The funeral," he blurted out, "I… I don't know what to do. I need to put the house up for sale and sell off my father's possessions and figure out who to invite and who to tell and talk to the lawyer about the will and… I-I don't know how to do it," he looked up at him, his eyes pleading, "Would… would you come with me? I don't want to be any bother, but…" the frantic flurry of words had lost its steam and Tintin's voice shrunk, small and quiet, "I really don't know what to do."

The Captain gazed for a moment, blue eyes glittering with some emotion Tintin couldn't quite decipher. But then he reached over and patted Tintin's leg, "Of course, I'll come with you! I've been through all of this before, laddie. We'll get it all sorted, don't worry. Besides, you didn't really think I was going to let you go back on your own anyway, did you?"

"I..." Tintin smiled a little, shaking his head, "I should have guessed," his words were still muffled by guilt and nervousness, but his gratitude reached through regardless, "Thank you, Captain."

Haddock waved away his thanks with a swinging hand and a mumbled, "Thundering typhoons, no need to thank me, lad," he placed the book on his leg, pages split to keep track of where he was, "so, when do we need to set on our course?"

"As soon as possible," Tintin sighed, sinking back into the armchair, "tomorrow, if you don't-"

"Don't be daft, boy! Of course, I don't mind," he sprung to his feet, as though Tintin had told him that they had to leave right this second, "I'll start packing now," he turned to leave, but then paused, looking back to the reporter, dwarfed slightly in the large armchair, "Is… Is there no one else who can help you? N-now I'm not sayin' I don't want to!" the Captain blustered hurriedly, "I just wondered… is there no one…"

Tintin shrugged, though something in his chest constricted, "Last of my line."

The Captain nodded, "Not easy, is it?"

For the first time since he received the telegram, Tintin felt what people would have expected him to feel: grief. Just not for his father. His breath pulled short and his fingers curled a little, "No," he breathed, "it's not."

Haddock paused, before stepping forward and gripping Tintin's shoulder. The boy looked up to see the older man's blue eyes glinting and a sad, understanding smile creasing his weather worn cheeks. He gave a squeeze, before turning and heading out of the room.

Tintin slumped back in his chair and sighed, head shifting to gaze idly into the fire. There was no denying that this was not a situation that he wanted to be in. It was like he had left everything in his will out of spite, as though he wanted Tintin to have to sift through all of his things. He must have known that Tintin wouldn't have wanted anything from him, not even money and certainly not the house. He hadn't wanted anyone to become involved in this, but if it had to be anyone, he was glad it was the Captain. He trusted him, in a way he hadn't allowed himself to trust for years.


End file.
